TORO NAGASHI

This coming weekend is Memorial Day in the United States. Along the shores at Ala Moana Beach Park on the island of Oahu; 1000 illuminated floating lanterns will be released simultaneously as “lantern offerings on the water” or Toro Nagashi.

The Japanese ‘Toro Nagashi’ is a time-honoured Buddhist ritual. It respects and pays tribute to our ancestors while comforting the spirits of the deceased and their survivors. During the ceremony, candle-lit lanterns are individually set afloat on the ocean. It is believed that these illuminated lanterns ferry spirits “from the shore of delusion to the shore of salvation.” As they float out to sea, these lanterns carry heartfelt prayers for victims of natural disasters, water-related accidents, war, famine, disease as well as for personal loved ones who have died. Many participants fill out individual slips of paper which they attach to the lantern frames.

This ceremony unites all who participate, without regard to nationality, culture, politics or religion. It is an act of becoming “one human family” and the desire for a future in which harmony exists among all people regardless of their differences. Given Tokunaga, Executive Director of Na Lei Aloha, one of the groups that sponsor the festival explains it this way, “This is not a Hawaiian event. It’s not a Japanese event. It’s not an American event. It’s a human event.”

One of last year’s participants, writer Sarah Brueggemann, describes her experience,

“Though surrounded by masses of people, I feel a sense of calm. Some watch in silence. Others snap photos of the visual feast. All linger on the beach to witness the glowing orange as they drift out to sea. Standing aside, one woman wipes tears from her eyes, which shine brighter than any luminary…

As I walk among the crowd, strangers share their stories. A traveler who lost her husband to cancer tells me how he loved surfing in Hawaii. She sprinkled his ashes here and hopes that by returning, she can reconnect with him. Despite such poignant accounts, the mood isn’t melancholy. The feeling is one of shared contentment…

Everyone waits with anticipation for the ceremony to begin. Buddhist monks in crimson and gold robes walk solemnly to a hibiscus-ringed stage. Powerful drumming and chanting resonates through the assembly. As the sun sets, outrigger canoes paddle into position. A double-hull craft transports six large “parent” lanterns which sit on delicately carved bases that resemble canoes. Some have masts with gossamer sails. People line the banks with lanterns, forming a radiant arc. Once released, the flames move toward the horizon, seeming to disappear over the earth’s edge.”

Last year I had hoped to be standing on the shores of Ala Moana Beach this weekend. It was not to be. I will look toward next year with a whispered wish and the words of Og Mandino on my mind…

“I will love the light for it shows me the way,
yet I will endure the darkness for it shows me the stars.”

--Royce--

TRANSLATORS...COLOURS OF THE MIND

For Writers To Remember...

"We, each of us, have our own “translators”

Each just a little different

There is no universal translator

There is misunderstanding in everything – especially speech

Words are a clumsy tool

But it is what we have to connect mind to mind

No matter how inefficient

Some are better artists than others

But there are always disconnects"

-The Pheasant-

A TRIBUTE TO MY MOTHER AND HER MOTHER

Photo: A page copied from Faye’s Diary… The early 1930’s

TWO ENTRIES:
Pages from a Journal…The Early 1930’s
Pages from a Journal…7 August 1990

Journal Entry: 7 August 1990

It’s been 27 days since Faye died. Last night, I felt as though someone stood next to my side of the bed, watching me sleep. I woke up, rather startled, and felt compelled to open the glass doors onto the upstairs porch and tiptoe outside. It was 4:20 in the morning and the ocean waves were slowly and rhythmically rolling under the house to crash against the huge slice of rock upon which our deck is built.

My senses were taking it all in…the view, the smell, the touch of salt spray on my face. I wondered if I were awake inside a dream. Then I realized with stark certainty that Faye was standing next to me. So close, I could feel her arm brush against mine. Together, we just stood there…silently…while the incredible crystal full moon danced across the San Francisco Bay.

In the distance, the ‘string of pearl’ lighting stretched in great arcs across the towers of the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge. Once, long ago on a visit, Kay had written the most wonderful letter telling us that the panorama from our house reminded her of the sight of the Bay of Bengal in Bombay called the Queen’s necklace. The lights along the road circling the famous Bay were placed in such a way to resemble the pearls of a necklace…India’s way of honouring their sovereign Queen. In my mind, I could hear Faye saying,“A miracle of nature, of design, of human imagination made real…did you ever see anything so beautiful!”

Faye whispered something else,“My old cedar trunk. There is something there I want your Mother to know. She must read it to understand my struggles yet know how very much I loved her as a child. How I loved her always. Then and now. Time is an illusion. Do you understand? The old cedar trunk. It’s there.”

What tricks were these my mind played? I rationalized away the moment. Sadness. Grief. Exhaustion. Imagination run amok. Shaking my head, I walked across the deck and back into my bedroom. I stood there looking at the moonlight streaming through the open doors; a bit more sleep might correct perceptions. I drifted off until the bright light of morning filled the room with a blazing sun that only amplified my belief in what had happened. I felt a renewed energy. Peaceful. An excited anticipation.

The cedar trunk had traveled with Faye from lifetime to lifetime. From the Indian Territory of the early 1900’s (before Oklahoma became a state) to the Panhandle prairies of Texas. From Texas to Colorado. To Utah. To California. To Montana and back to California. The trunk now lives at the bottom of grey weathered stairs, out a catwalk to the little boathouse sitting on stilted piers above the Bay. A large brass bed dominates the room with its cozy red rose comforter and masses of downy pillows. At its foot stands Faye’s trunk.

I hold an almost sacred reverence for Faye’s possessions. I never think of her as my grandmother but some exotic creature who was a spirited adventurer, talented artist, savvy business woman and romantic poet. I idolized her. She was my mentor and my muse. The thought of opening her trunk and sifting through the secret and cherished keepsakes of her life is somehow daunting and mystical. I feel a trespasser. Indiana Jones about to discover important treasures which have slept unseen and untouched. Secrets revealed.

I did it…with heart pounding and emotions raw, I lifted the heavy lid. Under several layers of eclectic momentos, I found a parcel wrapped in sumptuous velvet the colour of cognac, tied with a faded pink satin ribbon. Carefully, I untied the ribbon and folded back the velvet. A large black diary revealed itself to be in perfect order. Photos, postcards and letters flowed from one page to the next. A piece of Faye’s expensive stationary caught my eye. The faded but distinctive italic print from her ancient typewriter was unmistakable. My heart skipped a beat. This is what Faye wants my mother, her daughter, to read...

Journal Entry: (Sometime in the 1930’s)

The Girl I Used To Be

She came tonight as I sat alone
The girl I used to be
She gazed at me with earnest eyes
And questioned reproachfully,
“Have you forgotten the many plans?The hopes I had for you?
The great career, the splendid fame…
All the wonderful things to do
Where is the mansion of stately height
With grounds and gardens rare
The silken robes I dreamed for you,
The jewels for your hair”
As she spoke, I was very sad

I wanted her pleased with me
This slender girl from the shadowy past
The girl I used to be
Gently rising I took her hand
And guided her up the stair
Where peacefully sleeping my babies lay
Innocent, Sweet and Fair
I told her they were my only gems
Precious they are to me
My silken robe is motherhood
Of costly simplicity
My mansion of stately height is Love
The only career I know
Is serving each day in these sheltered walls
For the dear ones who come and go
As I spoke to this guest
From my shadowy past
She smiled through her tears at me
I saw that the woman
I am now
Pleased the girl

I used to be

Postscript: Faye not only raised her two daughters but she became the first woman Real Estate Broker in Boulder, Colorado. She was also an artist, writer, poet and gardener.

-Royce-

DNA...Dreams Nourish Art

As writers, it seems that we perpetually try to concoct a short, creative piece that captures the reader with a dash of humour thrown into the mix. For several hours one late evening, this MUSEologist sat impatiently in front of the keyboard waiting for the mental light bulb to illuminate. Time passed. More time passed. The mind remained a complete blank.

It was paralytically obvious that a creative jump-start was needed. So, I began surfing various comments left on previous posts. Reading them made me feel good. No, let me restate that, it made me feel REALLY GOOD that people cared enough to take the time to leave a comment…all of which were warm, supportive, kind and generous. I started to wonder what these people looked like or how they represented themselves via their choice of profile photo, image and words. Clicking on profile after profile just added to the widening ripples of gratitude and respect I felt for discovering such unique and interesting talent. Then…BAM…out of nowhere (as it always seems to do) it occurred to me that these magnificent faces and images and symbols were actually the individual components that, when linked together, create a rather awesome whole.

Just think about it for a moment. Every day, a random group of individuals (thousands of them) from all over the world leave their fingerprint, their proverbial strand of hair, their inspirational molecules on the microscope slide labeled ‘Blog’ or ‘Website’.

That was it! I would try and capture each image and weave them together resulting in a double helix strand of DNA. Not the biological DNA; but rather the SOUL of DNA. It seems to me (a foregone conclusion) that DNA must have an invisible energetic origin which is part and parcel of ‘soul’. It is not out of the realm of plausible possibility that the fundamental energetic fusion of inspiration, imagination, creativity, strength, courage, vision and love may be the gorilla glue…holding our DNA together.

Dreams Nourish Art…
Our DREAMS are as different as each individual.
We NOURISH these dreams uniquely…
Resulting in ART unlike any other on the planet.
If that doesn’t qualify as DNA…I don’t know what does!?!

-Royce-

IMAGINE BEING FOOLISHLY HOPE-FULL

To be hopeful in bad times is not just foolishly romantic. It is based on the fact that human history is a history not only of cruelty but also of compassion, sacrifice, courage, kindness.

What we choose to emphasize in this complex history will determine our lives. If we see only the worst, it destroys our capacity to do something. If we remember those times and places – and there are so many – where people have behaved magnificently, this gives us the energy to act, and at least the possibility of sending this spinning top of a world in a different direction.

And if we do act, in however small a way, we don’t have to wait for some grand utopian future. The future is an infinite succession of presents, and to live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us, is itself a marvelous victory.


Howard Zinn
American Professor
Social Activist
Author of People's History of the United States